2. Sarah
2
SARAH
The look on his face after I speak tells me that he has definitely misunderstood me, so I quickly open my mouth to clarify.
And oh, it's not that I don't like the look on his face, because it's Ian we are talking about here. The man I spent most of my teenage years wanting, needing, hoping to have.
But what I said has clearly been misinterpreted, and I have to clear the air.
I saw him the moment he walked in. At first, I couldn't believe it. The last time I saw him was fifteen years ago, but the more I looked at him, the more I ascertained that he is, in fact, Ian Peele, the man who saved my life all those years ago.
Now in his early forties, Ian looks like a dream come true. Tall, heavily built, blonde hair with speckles of gray that now make him look like a cover model for older men’s wear. He's dressed in a faded black shirt with faded blue jeans, something he paired with boots that make him look very manly, not that he ever didn't.
As I looked at him from afar, all I could think was that he could have been mine.
And then he started drinking so hard. At first, I remained in my seat, not wanting to bug him. But I couldn't just sit back and continue to watch as he finished his fourth bottle of beer in under thirty minutes of entering the bar.
So, here I am.
“So I’m a writer now, and I am currently working on a new book. I want my main male character to be very relatable, so I would very much appreciate it if you could tell me about what you've been up to the past fifteen years. See it as a way to pay me back for buying you a drink,” I explain.
Disappointment shadows his face, and I pretend not to see it.
To be honest, it's coming as a shock to me that he still finds me attractive. He made a big show of avoiding me back in the day. Of course, he kept hammering on the age thing, but if you ask me, I was already a legal adult. I didn't see what the big deal was.
“Oh, okay,” he says with a nod. I force a smile as I watch him take a sip of his drink. He's almost finished half of the bottle.
Why is he drinking so hard, anyway?
“What's in it for me?” he asks suddenly.
“I'm not sure I get you,” I said back to him.
“If I, you know, open up and tell you everything, what do I get out of it? Money? I mean, that seems fair, seeing as you may be using me to build a character for a book you'll make a lot of money from.” He gives me a slow once-over as he finishes speaking, and I have to keep myself from blushing.
He's not totally wrong.
“Fine, name your price.”
He looks at me like I've lost my mind, but he doesn't say anything.
He takes a couple more gulps of his beer, leaving the bottle with little content.
I can't have him take another bottle.
What is he even doing in my town?
“So what do you say?” I prompt him.
He glances at me and shrugs.
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
I internally smile, grateful for the turn of events.
While I did come into the bar to pick a man's brain for my new book, I had no idea I was going to meet someone as intriguing as Ian. The night couldn't have gone any better.
I need to get him out of the bar, though.
“Take a walk with me?”
“Yeah.” He nods, beckoning the bartender for a glass of water. I watch him gulp down the water, wanting more than anything to be what he's drinking.
Okay!
Naughty thoughts. Pump down the brakes, will you?
This has to be strictly platonic, nothing more.
He slams the glass down and asks the bartender if he owes any money. The guy shakes his head and tries to offer him some change, but Ian waves him off.
As we walk out, I notice that his step doesn't appear intoxicated. If anything, he looks like he's not had a single drink.
He's way ahead of me, so I catch up with him, pass him, and start to lead the way to the nearest coffee shop. We can sit there and discuss.
As we get to the road that leads to the center of the town, I take a turn and cross it, looking behind me to see if Ian is still following. He is. By the time I'm looking forward, I am in the middle of the road with a trailer truck coming out of nowhere toward me.
I look around for the quickest escape from the situation, but there's nothing, unless, by some sheer luck, the driver stops driving. Fear keeps me rooted in one spot, my basic human instincts buried deep within. In just ten seconds, the trailer will hit me, and I ready myself for it, thinking of the many people my death would affect.
Soon, the trailer pushes me off the road, its weight on me crushing. But I can still feel every part of my body, with only a little pain registering.
Chancing one of my eyes open, I come to the realization that I am indeed on the ground, but I haven't been hit. Ian is on top of me. It would appear that he has saved my life again.
A searing pain spreads through my back, and a groan escapes me, drawing Ian's attention. He quickly stands up and helps me to my feet, his hand holding my back while a few people start to clap for him.
Typical Glazer Ville behavior. Soon, the town will be buzzing about his heroic action.
I groan again, and he looks at me in concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks me.
I should be asking him that. What was he thinking, getting in front of a truck to save me?
But I don't have it in me to argue, so instead, I just nod and start to remove my body from his embrace. I am now suddenly aware of how close our bodies are. His hold on me tightens.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“What are you doing?” I throw the question back at him.
“Helping you stand upright. You?”
“Nothing. And I'm fine. You don't need to hold me.” My tone comes out a little stern, and he shuts down at my words, his expression going somber. “I'm sorry,” I try to say, but the words won't come out.
I guess I can be excused, though. I just had a near-death experience.
“Can I walk you home? Just to make sure you get home safely.”
His voice comes out so soft it brings tears to my eyes. I nod, sniffling as I wipe the them away.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Always,” is his response.
Somehow, it sounds like a vow, and it makes me even more emotional.
Oh, God.
“This way,” I say as I start to walk to the road that leads to my house.
As we walk, he speaks about how reckless the driver was, and I try to pretend to be interested in the conversation, but I really am not.
My mind is still reeling with the fact that I almost died. What is it with me and deadly accidents, anyway?
It's becoming tiring at this point.
And to think Ian is always around to save me, leaving me always indebted to him.
It doesn't help that my head can't differentiate between gratitude and love, not when it comes to Ian.
The man is the very core of most of my life's decisions. Wanting him, not being able to have him, our separation. And seeing him after all these years only to be thrown into the same confused state that I was in all those years ago.
Soon, we are in front of my door, and I couldn't be more grateful to enter my home.
“Thanks for everything,” I say, eager to depart from him after tonight’s events.
“You're welcome,” he responds, standing idle.
“I should, um, I should go inside.” I point at my door, and a fresh wave of disappointment fills his eyes.
Oh, no.
“Yeah, sure. I guess I'll see you around?” he asks nervously.
Again, I don't know why he's in my town or where he's staying, and honestly, I don't wish to.
But I nod anyway.
“Sure.”
He nods and starts to turn away. I noticed blood trickling down his left arm from a cut just below his elbow. Everything in me screams to ignore it, but I just can't.
Grabbing his hand, I inspect the cut. It's not as big as I first thought, but it needs to be cared for regardless.
He freezes at my touch, his eyes looking down at where I'm touching him.
I ignore his hot gaze and speak.
“You need to get this looked at,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No, I'll have it cleaned at the motel.”
“The hospital would be better.”
“No, I'm not going to the hospital,” he insists.
“Ian, you've bled so much already, and you didn't even notice.”
He shrugs at my words, leaving me with no choice but to offer him help. He is injured because of me, after all.
“Fine then, let me clean it up for you.”
“No, you don't have to. I'll get it sorted myself.” He instantly declines my offer, making me wonder if there's more to it.
I can't let him go unattended, though.
“I insist.”
“I really don't think it's necessary,” he continues to protest.
“Please.”
He sighs and then nods for me to open the door.
I let go of his hand, fetch my key, and open the door, waiting for him to enter before I do.
I motion to one of the seats in my big living room, and I continue to walk farther inside the house to fetch the first aid box.
“Please take a seat.”
Soon, I'm back, and he's rolled his shirt sleeve to his shoulder for easy access.
As I clean the cut, I realize it's deeper than I'd assumed.
“You need to get this stitched at the hospital,” I say.
He shakes his head at my words, not giving me any more explanation than that.
“Do you have something against the hospital?” I ask.
“Yes.” That's all I get.
I resist the urge to ask him why, knowing that he probably wouldn't answer anyway. I focus on patching his wound as best as I can.
It takes a while to get things done, and while I'm no nurse, I think I did a decent job.
When I'm done, he glances at his arm, a small smile on his face.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
“You're welcome,” I respond, meeting his eyes.
Suddenly, I am aware of how close we have gotten over the past few minutes. To clean his cut, I had to be right beside him, his hand now on my lap.
He notices the proximity in our bodies, too, and he swallows hard.
“I should go,” he says, but he makes no move to leave. Instead, his eyes leave mine to stare at my lips.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe him, maybe me. But I am too overwhelmed by the emotion of the past hour to care. So when our lips meet, all I can think of in my head is:
MORE!
I want more of him.